Fragmented
by x3eireclare93
Summary: Oneshot. Four year old Sammy is asking for his mother and wants an answer. Wee!chesters. Please read and review: greatly appreciated!


A/N: I own nothing!! Reviews are love! This turned out to be really short, but anyway it's late night inspiration straight from the tips of my fingers. Here you go:

It had been two weeks, and Sammy hadn't stopped asking questions. Ever since they'd been staying with Pastor Jim in Blue Earth, Minnesota he'd been wondering. To be more precise, ever since he'd started attending church. He and Dean hadn't gone. Both he and his oldest had an understanding that, while it may be too late to save their souls, the innocent four year old in their midst had the capacity to believe in the most far-fetched of wonderments, and they would let him go to the "wooden house" and watch Pastor Jim in his "robe" give "crackers" to the people absorbing the good word. Yes, Sammy had imbibed the "good word" just like those members of the congregation who tried to drink more of their share of the Communion wine. He came regurgitating his knowledge back at the farm to his less than engaged family, his excited legs tapping incessantly against his chair at the dinner table, pontificating: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and shut the hell up, Sammy, I'm trying to get some sleep. The baby pope's eyes were wide open, and they didn't seem to be shutting any time soon.

He knew church would never be a good influence on his kids. At church Sam had seen the families, those _whole, complete, beautiful _families that he would never shake out of his head. The first thing he would notice is how big they seemed in comparison to JohnDeanSamWinchester. Then he would noticed that there were girls too, those soft, pretty, pink things that were irreplaceable and untouchable. But Sammy wouldn't ask why don't we have a sister, he asked why don't we have a mommy. She died, Sammy. Where is she, he would ask. And it had taken a long time for anyone to tell him about Mary's death in the first place, let alone answer that question. For a long time it had been why don't we have a mommy and fragile silence. But he was glad that he had been able to shield at least one four year old from knowing the meaning of death when he asked that second question.

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Sam had been told that his big, strong, brave brother Dean carried him from a house fire with his own two hands. He'd rocked him to sleep, but Dean wasn't his mother, and he'd seen that red-haired woman in church, carrying a small creature just like he knew he'd been once, although that had been ages ago, he thought, not even worth remembering. And why hadn't he had one of those? Dean seemed a poor excuse for one of those. He had short hair and ripped clothes and a different expression on his face that looked mean but was not. Sammy knew his brother and that he looked mean but wasn't, just like their father, and he wondered if that was what it meant to be a man, to look mean but not be. And if that was what it took to be a man, he'd never get to be one because all he saw when he looked in the mirror was big eyes and the thought that maybe he looked a little bit like a baby frog, but nothing really like many other humans he'd seen. Seeing all of those babies, knowing that their family picture would need a bigger picture frame that JohnDeanSamWinchester's because they had four instead of three, and mostly because they just seemed like they deserved a bigger picture frame, had made the four year old quite lonely.

And he had Dean to play with and to hold him when he was sad but Dean wasn't one of _those_, and he never really thought he would be. He just wanted to know _why_ like he'd been asking his whole life, if only in his mind, even if he'd only just found the words for what he'd been looking for. _Why _don't we have a mommy, Daddy? Sometimes Daddy and everyone else would pretend like he was dead air, even though he was quite alive and pounding on his father's knee. Sometimes Dean would leave the room if he asked a certain number of times, but he wouldn't stop and he didn't know why but he just wouldn't. It was like when he got angry; if you started yelling, you just couldn't hold it back. Asking for his mother became a reflex, an impulse. Daddy sighed once, and one time Dean yelled and ran, she died, Sammy. Even with that word that seemed to explain everything, he was lost and wanted to know why.

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Pastor Jim wasn't necessarily angry, but he was sad and fed-up. Someone should have a talk with that boy. His life is going to be unfair enough, John, without you breaking down on communicating with your son like this. Is that why Dean didn't talk for months after Mary Winchester died? Because you couldn't talk to him, John? He didn't know anymore. Boys should know where their mothers are, even if they shouldn't know what death is. He found the four year old chasing a family of ducks outside by the pond and giggling at them. He sat down on the soft, green bank and watched the boy until Sammy noticed and sat down by him, unabashed at the Pastor catching him in such a state.

"Hi, Pastor Jim."

"Hello, Samuel." The boy's eyes were still lingering on the mother duck and her dutiful ducklings waddling clumsily behind. They reminded Jim of John and his docile sons and soldiers, following his every move.

"Pastor Jim?"

"Yes, son."

"The one in front is mommy duck right?"

"Yes, Samuel." They were silent for a few moments.

"Samuel, do you know where your mother is?" He looked up with those plaintive doe-eyes and said simply,

"No." He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of a bad memory. "Daddy and Dean told me she died." They watched the reflections of the family as they flew up into air, sunlight dancing on the water in their absence.

"Do you see how the mother duck is flying up towards the clouds?" he asked the mesmerized little boy.

"Yes."

"Let's imagine for a moment that her ducklings didn't fly off with her, and they're still here playing in the pond."

"The sky's really big, Pastor Jim. Why would she leave them?"

"She wouldn't, unless she had no choice."

"Why doesn't she have a choice?" the four year old demanded. He was barely out of his toddler years, but he was relentless. Pastor Jim felt his heart twist. Suddenly he knew why John was mute on the subject. It was like he was like learning he had lost his wife Emma all over again. He sighed. Swallowed the lump in his throat. Placed a gentle hand on Sam's floppy dark hair that made him so endearing to an old heart.

"Your mother's dead, Sam. Do you know what that means?" Sam eyes suddenly filled with tears, shocking the pastor with his understanding when he solemnly pointed up at the ducks flying away. Jim nodded.

"Is she ever coming back?" he was crying now; big, fat, baby tears that plopped down his puffy toddler cheeks. The pastor grabbed him in a hug to mop up the tears with his shirt.

"No, son. She's up in heaven now." Sam cried his heart out; there was a void he wanted filled that he hadn't even noticed before. There had never been a fire so completely smothered with tears. The two grieving figures watched day turn to night in the glow of the pond.


End file.
